


Beautiful Disaster

by Jaxin



Series: Ouroboros [1]
Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 20:04:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaxin/pseuds/Jaxin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it begins, the world is an ever-widening span of gods and monsters, and she is still finding her place in it. She does not know where it will end, only that all things do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautiful Disaster

**Author's Note:**

> Thor: The Dark World spoilers.

When it begins, the world is an ever-widening span of gods and monsters, and she is still finding her place in it. The courts of Asgard move in a clockwork precision, companions determined by birthright and limitless futures. 

They are a merry band, her friends, crashing together through life with laughter and bruises. They practice together in the courtyard, Hogun with his mace, Volstagg with his axe and Fandral with his foil. Thor tears around them with his hammer, using the mighty Mjölnir to pulverize targets as Loki flits about with his daggers, leaving a trail of straw and scraps behind him. Once they are allowed on the battlefield, their foes will not stand a chance.

She has chosen what her life will be. She will be the best, with the expectations and alliances that entails—she sees her mother talking with her king, notes them watching as she and Thor work together to defeat their trainer.

Her chin lifts. She knows what is expected of her. 

She will exceed it.

.  .  .

She shifts in her court dress, the superfluous layers constraining her in ways her armor never does. The banquet itself has fallen into chaos, but she cannot regret it. No court parasite will lay his hands on her without her permission, and if it takes a knife to the neck to teach them that, so much the better. They will remember, and their hands will still.

There is a rustle of curtains beside her, and Loki joins her on the balcony.

“Well. That was quite the scene in there.”

She glares at him. “He got no more than he deserved.”

He lifts his hands as his lips twitch up. “I never said he was guiltless. The face full of mashed potatoes was a particularly nice touch.”

She snorts and tosses her head, pulling her wind-tangled hair from her face. “Volstagg certainly agrees with you.”

“He'd already eaten his fill. Otherwise, he might've complained.”

Her hands tighten on her flowing skirt. They'd roared with laughter, her friends, but the food being hurled inside was for merriment and nothing more. Sometimes she wonders how long it will be until they notice that she is different than the rest of Thor’s band of merry men.

The prince next to her turns, watching her closely. “You've got a little wine on you, you know.”

Her teeth clench as her cheeks heat. “Thank you, Loki.”

He moves closer, gaze still locked on her. Something inside her thrills at his inventory, at the challenge in his gaze. She lifts her chin.

He smiles, eyes lit with mischief. “Seems a shame to waste it.” His lips press against hers, soft and still tasting of the roast duck from the feast. His tongue darts out, running across her lips, but he pulls back before she has a chance to respond.

He licks his lips, eyes locked with hers, and smirks before sliding back through the curtain, back to the cacophony within.

Her nails scratch against the wall behind her, catch.

Well. Apparently she didn't need to wait long at all.

.  .  .

Years pass and his eyes are still on her, still full of a challenge that she cannot name. They are fighting on Muspelheim and his shades are flickering around the field, drawing the attention of the Fire Demons as the Asgardians battle their way to Loskur's throne room. A shade appears beside her as she hacks a Fire Demon to pieces. Her sword catches in its armor, and Loki clucks his tongue. “Now, now, Sif, that could almost be called clumsy.”

Her teeth are bared as she tears it loose to swing at the next demon. “Oh yes, because elegance is what matters on the battlefield.”

Loki shrugs. “Well. It's a consideration, at the very least.”

“Maybe for a prince.” Her muscles scream at her as she decapitates the demon, its scorching blood hissing as it hits her armor.

A roar shakes the air, and a sudden weight bears her to the ground. She stiffens at the green-robed arms around her and lifts her head next to his. “Loki, what—”

“Down!” There is a crackle of command in his voice, and she decides to listen. Moments later a fireball roars above their heads, scorching the air in its wake. 

She swallows, tightens her jaw as she stands. “Thank you.”

His voice is almost mocking, but for the way it catches. “Be more careful, would you?”

Across the battlefield Thor summons them for the final strike, and Loki's eyes shutter as she charges away.

.  .  .

Muspelheim's war is over, now that Surtur's forces have reclaimed the throne for their trueborn king. The Asgardians are gifted with firewine before Heimdall recalls them, and Thor's stomach betrays him as the Bifrost drags them across the realms. They stumble to a stop in Asgard and he laughs as he swipes the vomit from his beard, face reddened from the fierce spices. “Now  this is a drink worth trying!”

Sif's lips tighten as Volstagg quaffs a bottle, Hogun and Fandral watching with raised eyebrows.  Heimdall is impervious as always, the weight of his gaze so constant as to be inconsequential, but Loki—Loki's eyes are on her. She lifts her chin as they make their way back to the castle, her grip tightening on her sword. 

The warriors three are laughing as Thor attempts to surf down the side of the Bifrost, firewine in one fist and Mjölnir in the other. She walks behind them, muscles sore from the day's battles. A good quarter of Loskur's forces lost their lives to her blades today, including Loskur himself. 

Loki's voice breaks through the fog of her exhaustion. “I fear there's naught to be done for your armor, Sif. You might as well be done with it and remove it entirely.”

She snorts. “You would enjoy that.”

He tilts his head in easy acquiescence. “You might, as well.”

Her mouth works for a moment before it settles in a firm line, and he smirks as she storms ahead.

.  .  .

He's always done this. He taunts her.  _Plays_ with her. She stops in her angry circuit of the castle, her hands clenching on air. 

It's time he got a taste of his own medicine.

.  .  .

He is near the throne room—he is always near the throne room—when she finds him, her blood rushing from battle and impatience. He has done this to her, he can take care of it. There is only a moment for her to see the triumph in his eyes as she catches his wrists in her hands, then her eyes are closed as she crushes her lips against his. She is not gentle, not like he was so long ago. She isn't interested in haunting him. She's going to mark him.

Her teeth catch on his lower lip, dragging him closer to her as she shoves him against the wall. She isn't close enough, she can never  be close enough, because any moment now he could fade from her grasp. His lips are chapped and cool and she tells herself it's because he was on the balcony, that the ever-present chill he seems to carry with him is nothing more than a trick of circumstance. His chill is enough to heat her blood, though, and she drags a groan from his throat as she thrusts her tongue into his mouth. Her armor grinds against his and for a moment she wishes she were free of it, free of all the plans and games that hold them so tightly in thrall. 

In that moment she pities Thor, with all the weight of the Nine Realms that waits for his shoulders. She knows what being bound to him would mean—she sees the weight on Frigga's shoulders, the fire in her eyes as she guards the ones she loves against all the magpie-minded warriors and kings come to snatch them away from her.

Her hands have shifted without her permission, something she only notices when Loki's fingers twine with hers, brushing gently across the backs of her hands. Her movements stutter as he presses his hips into hers, and his lips curve against her own. He catches her gasp in his mouth and as she tears her lips away from his he spins her around, pinning her to the stones. She grasps his hair in retaliation, using it to drag his mouth back to hers as his hands caress her throat, trailing over her hammering pulse.

His hips are rocking steadily against hers now, harder as she bites his lips, and she is considering how they could disrobe in the least amount of time when a voice is cleared in the background.

They both freeze, breaths loud in the sudden silence. Loki turns first, his arms braced over her shoulders. “Yes, mother?”

It is indeed the queen of Asgard standing in the doorway, her lips pressed tight to hide a smile. “One sees the most interesting things on an afternoon walk.”

Loki steps back, straightening his robes. He doesn't even bother disguising his smirk. Sif doesn't know where to look, her hair in disarray and her breath still fast. She nods to the queen. “My lady.” 

She brushes past Loki, intent on washing away both the battle's grime and her own humiliation, and barely hears Frigga's comment. “I'd suggest a lack of armor next time.”

She doesn't know what to do, what to say, so she flees to her chambers, not looking behind her to see Loki's smirk blossom into a full grin. 

.  .  .

It was a mistake, she tells herself as the water in her copper tub slowly cools around her still-heated body. It wasn't—he wouldn't— she dunks herself beneath the water, trying in vain to silence the argument in her head.

She breaks the surface, running her hands over her hair, and freezes. He is leaning against the opposite wall, eyes veiled as always. 

“How did you get in here?” She curses herself even as the question leaves her mouth, but there can be no question of  _why_ he is here.

His lips curl in amusement, and he flickers out of sight for a moment. “Do you really have to ask?”

She glares at him, straightening her spine. “You can't be in here.”

“Oh, can't I?” She doesn't answer and he tilts his head, eyes locked on hers. “Tell me to leave and I will.”

She should, she knows. Asgard has plans for her.

She’s always made her own plans.

He slinks forward, eying the high sides of her tub, and she raises a hand. “Stop.” He bows mockingly, and she lifts her chin. “The armor goes.”

“Why Lady Sif, one would think you had plans for me.”

“I might.  If the armor goes.”

For the first time, the challenge that seems to thrum under his skin fades. He nods and reaches for the straps of his armor, shucking it deliberately as their eyes lock. He is free of most of it, stepping out of his boots, when she stands. The cool air is a shock against her skin, but she warms in the heat of his gaze.

He drops his robes, and she refuses to think about what this means, how this will affect their camaraderie, what her parents—or, Ymir forbid, their friends—will say.

He lifts his chin as she watches him, swallowing slightly. 

There is only space for the two of them, but it is enough.

.  .  .

She can’t say it has a beginning, this strange affair of theirs. It’s been building for so many years that it feels timeless, and sometimes she plays with the idea that it will never end. She can let go with him, taking his mouth with her own, letting him press her into the bed. His hands paint glowing designs on her skin, gilding her with his touch. Sif was never one for the library, not like he is, but though she does not know what they say, what the murmured words he presses into her skin mean, she can guess. 

It is always varied with him, no routine to let their time settle for her. Days of teasing could lead to nothing, while just a glance across the practice field might summon him into her bedchamber before she’d even finished removing her armor. His moods are as changeable as the weather, playful and teasing one moment and almost frightening the next. He has skillful hands, her enchanter, but some days he clutches at her as if she’ll vanish as easily as he does.

.  .  .

She is to join Thor on an expedition to Niffleheim, a small foray into the world of ice and mist. The All-Father has heard of troubling reports that he refuses to elaborate on, instead insisting that an Asgardian king must be skilled in all methods of warfare—including surveillance. She has rarely seen Loki so angry.

His shoulders are stiff, and he refuses to look at her. “An Asgardian king must also learn to delegate tasks to those who can do them, Father.”

Odin’s eye narrows. “Do you suggest that your brother is incapable of this task?”

“No. I declare it. Thor is as subtle as an avalanche. If you wish to learn of Niffleheim’s status, send someone who won’t start a war as easily as breathing.” Thor takes in a breath, ready to decry the statement, but Loki pins him with a glare. “You know it’s true, brother.”

Thor pauses before nodding. “There have been reports of trouble on Vanaheim. My hammer would be of more use against a known foe, Father. Have Loki go in my stead.”

Loki's spine straightens, and Sif almost laughs. For all of his deception, he can be so easy to read.

.  .  .

She looks back on those times later, all the moments they stole together, the comfort they found in each other, and shudders. 

She did not know him. She never knew him.

It’s easier to accept that than to hope that her _(_ _friend, love, companion, she can’t even name him_ _)_ might one day return.

.  .  .

That day comes, and that day goes. She is cleaning Dark Elf from her blades when the whisper begins to travel around the castle, half-heard murmurs of sacrifice. She tells herself that he is the Trickster, that nothing he does _(_ _did_ _)_ can be trusted, and pretends that her heart isn’t sinking.

It isn’t until the last Dark Elf corpse is cleared from the city that she gives herself time to find out what happened. The throne room is in ruins, Odin’s seat nothing but ash and rubble, but the All-Father’s guards have already begun to clear it. Asgard is used to war, to grief. It is nothing new.

She collars the guard staring at the throne, pushes him into a corner. “What news of Svartalfheim?”

He stares at her for a fraction of a moment before he straightens his shoulders. “A body was found, my lady. The traitor Loki is dead.”

Her fist slams into the wall next to him, silencing him. “Don’t.” The guard raises his brows, and her voice cracks. “He was protecting the realms.” She clears her throat. “How do we know he’s dead? He has played greater tricks, before.”

A strange look passes over the guard’s face, edging on regret. “Come with me, my lady.”

.  .  .

It’s strange, seeing him like this. She’s seen him unclothed and panting, laid bare before her, and yet he’s never looked so vulnerable as now. His skin is pale and unmoving, a filigree of cerulean blood laid out just beneath the surface. There is a dark stain on his chest and she reaches out a shaking hand to touch it. The guard moves behind her and she snatches her hand back, tightening her fist. Her nails cut into her palm, and she stumbles back against the wall. The world is closing in around her, tighter, tighter, and she clutches the stonework behind her. 

For all that she’s imagined his death for years, the reality of it is something far different. She can hear the guard speaking to her, but his voice has gone hazy and distant.

The guard flexes his hands as he watches her. His eyes shift from brown to blue and he turns on his heel, leaving her to her grief.

.  .  .

The All-Father watches her closely in the days after Thor’s leaving. She knows of his hopes for her, the plans Thor had unknowingly destroyed the moment he met Jane Foster. It might have been an option, eons ago, but no longer. He’ll have to understand that.

The man on the throne watches her walk away from Thor’s announcement, waiting to see regret on her face.

He doesn’t.

.  .  .

The days pass and Asgard moves on, but she doesn’t. She can’t. Her eyes close and she sees him die, watches the myriad ways the light fades from his eyes. She tallies his failings, recites his betrayals, and yet still wakes with an aching heart. 

Her eyes fly open and she jerks upright, her hands clutching her bedsheets hard enough to tear. She pulls on a robe over her night gown, shoving her feet into fur-lined slippers before stepping outside. In the starlight Asgard looks as it always has, hiding the fallen pillars and scorch marks in shadow. Blood runs too quickly through her veins and she obeys it, setting off into the darkness. 

They always did prefer sunlight, her people, and she savors the quiet. It isn’t until she reaches the upper balconies that she realizes she isn’t alone.

A guard watches her from the doorway, and she looks closer and stiffens. He is the one who told her of— “My lady, are you all right?”

It should be an easy question, but no answer comes to her. She shakes her head and crosses her arms, staring out across the starlit city.

His brow furrows and he steps closer, voice soft and eyes intent. “Tell me to leave, and I will.”

Her eyes snap back to his.

.  .  .

FIN


End file.
